Apple Nectar
by avalonroses
Summary: Mr. Kirkland has a bad habit of bending over desks to help students. Alfred has a bad habit of getting distracted by Mr. Kirkland. USUK.


_Apple Nectar_

All he had to do was not turn his head. That was all. He could do that. He, Alfred F. Jones, _could do that. _

Except he really couldn't.

And the harder he tried to _not look, _the harder it became to focus, to keep his eyes on textbook atop his desk where the words on the page had blurred into illegible hieroglyphics. His best friend, Kiku, sat adjacent to him, studiously ingesting information. Damn him. That's what Alfred should have been doing.

Even without this sort of diversion, English Literature wasn't his strongest suit and his grades were suffering.

With a great deal of struggle, Alfred read the first line of his textbook and inwardly congratulated himself.

He was battling through his third line when someone nudged the leg of his chair.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that, Alfred," Mr. Kirkland said softly.

"No worries, sir."

"Mr. Kirkland, I still don't understand what most of these words mean," Feliciano whined. He was a sweet kid but he was always _that guy _in class, the one that asked for another explanation after the concept had already been explained thoroughly, twice over.

"I've just gone through this with you, Feliciano; you need to start paying more attention. Look…"

Alfred lost the ability to comprehend language and Mr. Kirkland's words distorted into incomprehensible noises. His English teacher was bent over Feliciano's desk, _yet again. _The result being his cute, little ass was mere inches away from Alfred's face. He was talking literal inches here, if Alfred leaned just a fraction in that direction, his cheek would be touching, well, Mr. Kirkland's cheek.

Why did this always happen. Why.

Alfred had contemplated asking for a seat change but he knew it'd only upset Kiku. Telling his best friend he wanted to move desks because of the downright filthy thoughts he had about their English teacher wasn't an option either.

There had to be something wrong with him. Mr. Kirkland wasn't exactly a popular teacher, his austerity and general bitchiness made most students itch to get out of his classes. He was at least two decades older than Alfred and the guy was just _stuffy. _

But he was also really cute.

When he became irritated, which happened often, the small space between his dense eyebrows would crease endearingly and when he became flustered, he'd bounce about like a cornered bunny. He had this cluster of freckles across his nose and, one time, Alfred actually saw him blush over a comment a student had made about Shakespeare's preoccupation with phallic imagery.

Though strange, and something he would never, ever confess to, having a crush on Mr. Kirkland wasn't _too _terrible. It was the graphic fantasies Mr. Kirkland inspired in him whenever he bent over next to Alfred that was embarrassing… and distracting.

Alfred squirmed in his seat.

_Resist temptation, resist temptation. _

He unconsciously lifted his head when someone on the other side of the room whispered.

It was all over. Mr. Kirkland's backside filled his vision and he continued to stare from the corner of his eye. All concentration he had had for his textbook scuttled off into some unreachable pocket inside his brain.

_God, it was just so cute and tight. He could imagine how amazing it would feel taking in his – _

A lot of blood was retreating from his head, migrating south, and a recurring fantasy emerged; it seemed this one was always skimmed close to the surface in these instances.

Obviously all of the other students in the classroom would melt away in the fantasy, leaving Alfred and Mr. Kirkland alone. Mr. Kirkland would still be leaning over the desk, waiting, anticipating.

Alfred moved towards his teacher, his gaze never leaving Mr. Kirkland's backside, and he crowded himself over the man. Alfred was tall, built, and he could effortlessly overpower his teacher, even at seventeen.

His hands smoothed over Mr. Kirkland's slender thighs and he glided his fingers, achingly slow, across the man's rear. _Really _taking his time. He could hear his teacher's breath snag in his throat and spill over his lips stutteringly. Alfred's fingers made a path along the Englishman's hipbones and reached around for his belt buckle.

Mr. Kirkland's pulse fluttered about in his chest, hummingbird heart, and the sound of his belt being pulled through the loops was devastatingly erotic.

Alfred imagined Mr. Kirkland carried some of his formality into sexual situations and he'd easily become a victim of self-consciousness. And as Alfred slid his trousers and underwear over the bend his pelvis created, he tried to cover himself with his hands. The teenager snatched those hands in his own and pinned them to the desk long enough for the message to be received. Mr. Kirkland's hands stayed put, Alfred was in the driver's seat.

Alfred knew his teacher would be beautiful naked and from the portion of flesh that had been exposed, Alfred's suspicions were confirmed. Mr. Kirkland was pale and svelte and _lord, his ass._

"You're _hot, _Mr. Kirkland," Alfred said, surprised by how gravelly his voice was.

"Alfred, bloody _do something." _There was a pause. "God, please."

"Your wish is my command, _sir." _

He felt a throb between his legs and his entire body twitched, as alight and unpredictable as uncontrolled electricity.

Mr. Kirkland was fidgeting. A breathy chuckle escaped Alfred. To think, his teacher was all hot and bothered because of him. Because he was bent over in front of Alfred, utterly at the teenager's mercy. Alfred stepped in closer to him so the wriggling was against his groin.

The American gyrated against his teacher's ass for a little longer, until Mr. Kirkland was rutting and he was choking on his own exhales. Alfred moved away, which took every ounce of will-power he possessed, and knelt on the ground. Mr. Kirkland stilled, immobilised with tension, he had no idea what Alfred was about to do after all.

Teasingly, Alfred blew on his teacher's inner thigh and wound his breath in lazy circles over the back of the older man's legs. He could almost see the impatience coiling, tightening, in Mr. Kirkland. Alfred travelled higher and higher and his breath became butterfly kisses and tiny nips of teeth, leaving the man underneath him gasping.

Without warning, Alfred parted Mr. Kirkland's cheeks and took a long, leisurely lick.

The older man lurched forward, scooting the desk slightly, and made a high-pitched sound of disbelief. Alfred pulled him back by his hips and dragged his tongue between Mr. Kirkland's cheeks again. His teacher moaned, low and long, and slumped against the desk, surrendering himself completely.

Reaching around, Alfred took his teacher in his hand and pleasured the man with as many sensations as he could.

Expecting nothing less, Mr. Kirkland came undone exquisitely. With the sensory overload, he wasn't quite sure whether to rock into Alfred's hand or writhe against Alfred's mouth so he settled on an uncoordinated combination of the two. Alfred was quick to figure out what worked for Mr. Kirkland and made sure the rhythm of his hand was fast but his tongue was torturous. Occasionally, he'd stop his ministrations with his mouth altogether and watch as his teacher begged with his body for Alfred to resume.

Each movement Mr. Kirkland made started to become desperate and convulsive as his climax budded, the tendrils of it touching every nerve ending. He was loud, deliciously loud.

Arousal speared through Alfred when his teacher called his name, clear as a bell.

Alfred delved his tongue inside Mr. Kirkland again, swirling the muscle, and the smaller man seized, crying out as his climax shattered within him. With rapt attention, Alfred watched, maintaining the high by keeping the man in his hand and gently palming him. Eventually, the smaller man went boneless and quiet, catching his breath – Alfred found his breathing had also gone quite shallow.

On impulse, Alfred bit into the plumpness of one of Mr. Kirkland's cheeks, kneading the skin with his teeth to ensure it would bruise. He wouldn't allow Mr. Kirkland to forget, to let it seep into that space between dream and memory.

His teacher shuddered.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted to do that to you," Alfred rasped.

"Alfred," Mr. Kirkland sighed.

"Yeah?"

"Alfred."

Confused, Alfred tipped his head to the side. "What?"

"Alfred!"

The fantasy collapsed, folding in on itself until Alfred was glaringly conscious and surrounded by eyes blinking at him. Two dark green eyes were particularly unforgiving.

"What?"

"Please do share these fascinating daydreams of yours with the class. They must be terribly interesting, since they seem to hold your undivided attention during all of my lessons," Mr. Kirkland demanded, indignant.

Twisting in his seat, he was still uncomfortably hard, Alfred's face went hot and one of his male classmates sniggered.

His teacher appeared to catch on because a hint of colour had bloomed on his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "Come and see me after class, Alfred."

Alfred nodded and kept his head down for the remainder of the lesson, dreading whatever it was Mr. Kirkland had to say to him.

It was funny though, and Alfred might have been imagining things, but he could have sworn he felt Mr. Kirkland's eyes lingering on him more than usual.

* * *

><p>Inspired from a post on the libertea headcanons tumblr, link is on my writing tumblr.<p>

I'm ashamed, I really am.


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